第52章 THE SKETCH BOOK(5)

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground: every thing isassociated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every old cottage that Isaw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he hadacquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and manners, andheard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which he haswoven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told,it was a popular amusement in winter evenings "to sit round thefire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords,ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies,goblins, and friars."** Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host ofthese fireside fancies. "And they have so fraid us withbull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs,pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs,dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings,incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke,the hell-waine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins,Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of ourown shadowes."My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, whichmade a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings through a wideand fertile valley; sometimes glittering from among willows, whichfringed its borders; sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneathgreen banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and makingan azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom ofcountry is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line ofundulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the softintervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver linksof the Avon.

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into afootpath, which led along the borders of fields, and under hedgerowsto a private gate of the park; there was a stile, however, for thebenefit of the pedestrian; there being a public right of way throughthe grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every onehas a kind of property- at least as far as the footpath isconcerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and,what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parksand pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes thepure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as thelord of the soil; and if he has not the privilege of calling allthat he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble ofpaying for it, and keeping it in order.

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whosevast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded solemnlyamong their branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditarynests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista,with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue; and a vagrantdeer stalking like a shadow across the opening.

There is something about these stately old avenues that has theeffect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretendedsimilarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of longduration, and of having had their origin in a period of time withwhich we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also thelong-settled dignity, and proudly-concentrated independence of anancient family; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic oldfriend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of moderngentry, that "money could do much with stone and mortar, but, thankHeaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue ofoaks."It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, andabout the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, whichthen formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakspeare'scommentators have supposed he derived his noble forest meditationsof Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in "As You Like It."It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes, that the mind drinksdeep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensibleof the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles intoreverie and rapture; vague but exquisite images and ideas keepbreaking upon it; and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicableluxury of thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under oneof those very trees before me, which threw their broad shades over thegrassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancymay have sallied forth into that little song which breathes the verysoul of a rural voluptuary:

Under the green wood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry throat

Unto the sweet bird's note,

Come hither, come hither, come hither.

Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building ofbrick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of QueenElizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. Theexterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may beconsidered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy countrygentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into akind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with agrassplot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of theancient barbican; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers;though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. The front ofthe house is completely in the old style; with stone-shaftedcasements, a great bow window of heavy stone-work, and a portal witharmorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of thebuilding is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball andweathercock.